I won't let that Halloween go! I won't, I tell you.

After years of dying a slow professional death at Mulletville Corp and then resurrecting my career through a series of part-time, freelance, and contract gigs, I’ve been full-time in the same marketing office for almost seven years. 

Yes, I've worked in a terrifically dysfunctional office with a group of people who work incredibly hard but are quite literally falling apart emotionally for almost a decade. Go me! 

Today during a meeting, the conversation veered off from someone's spouse's infusion (or was it someone's mother's dementia? No, it may have been someone's sister's goiter..) to the weather on Halloween. 

As it happens during meetings desperate to avoid pointless agendas, talk settled there for awhile.

"Looks windy Friday."

"I heard rain."

"Poor trick-or-treaters..." 

"Their little costumes..." 

"At least not freezing cold."  

"Ah yes, good point."

"At least not a hurricane followed by a blizzard!" I blurted.

No one could argue with that. 

"Remember," I asked. "Halloween 2012?" 

Try as I might, I cannot forget that Halloween. There are the obvious reasons it stands out: there was a hurricane, during which we lost power. After years of me waking every few hours to tend to children, my husband Chuck finally understood what I'd been experiencing when he had to wake every few hours to tend to the generator. (On sale now: Chuck's biography, "I Successfully Slept Through the Early Years.")

Halloween was postponed in our town, Mulletville Lite, and someone brilliant in town decided that it should be held a few days later during a major snowstorm. As we trick-or-treated in feet of snow, and I carried my hefty toddler — whose slippery snowsuit kept sliding down my body — my neighbor chided me for complaining too much. 

Of course I was insulted. Chide moi? The woman who had made multiple costumes, carved pumpkins with a toddler, raked leaves, drank cider, glued googly eyes to construction paper bats, sang "The Monster Mash," and done autumn leaf rubbings? Moi?   

Years later, I see that night as one of those "aha moments" — when the preposterous demands of parenthood light up like a neon sign. 

See, when you're pregnant, you understand motherhood will probably demand things of you. Of course it will. How could it not? You have to help another human (maybe several) survive and thrive. 

What you can't imagine is how utterly preposterous those things will be. 

Things like wiping your kid's ass while simultaneously holding a puke bin for another kid while answering a work email while gulping down half a sandwich. Speeding to a doctor's appointment because your kid has a 105 fever and realizing you only have one shoe on, you left your wallet at home and you're on E — and you forgot it's 2:30 and your other kid doesn't have after school club that day and who the fuck can get him off the bus? 

The list is endless. 

The indignity is that the preposterous acts go so... uncelebrated. Your kids don't appreciate them. The Universe doesn't give awards for them. Your boss doesn't want to hear about them because it usually means you were late to work or missed a deadline. Spouses and partners are usually unimpressed because when you share all the preposterous things you've done, they usually hear all the preposterous things they didn't do and get defensive.

No winning here.  

So yah, it may rain for Halloween this year. 

But at least it won't snow in the -20 degree pitch black dark of night! And the walk won't be uphill in both directions! And... 

Oh my...I'm old.

An attempted love note to my motherly self

I was going to post some Hurricane Sandy photos for my first "welcome back to power and its modern conveniences" post—yes, it blew—but the photo below is so much more timely.

It's fluffy snow covering my jack-o'-lanterns and mums, and I took the picture tonight, right after we got back from trick or treating. See, the town postponed Halloween a week because of the hurricane. Then we got a nor'easter. (There's a punch line in there somewhere, right?) And even though the temperature is 32, and snow is blowing and it's ass butt cold, the neighborhood parents convinced me (Chuck was stuck at work) that I should join them trick or treating for the kids. 

"They're so excited," one mom told me. "You can't not take them out."

Um, yes I can not. 

Except, I let her talk me into it. 

The kids' costumes needed some refining. Instead of being a knight, Junior wore snow pants, boots, a jacket, a hat and gloves. I crammed two cardboard "skis" down the back of his jacket. Voila...a skier. I stuffed Everett's snowsuit with socks and pantyhose until he was so puffy he couldn't bend over. Voila...Ralphie's brother from A Christmas Story.

We hit the streets. 

No one had their lights on. Rather, every 10th house had their lights on, so we did a fair amount of trudging. Up hills. Across lawns. Zig zagging streets. There were casualties. The plow went by twice. One kid fell off the steps and into the shrubs. Everett lost a mitten. Candy became wet and frozen. The snow stung our eyes. My toes and chin went numb. 

"This is ridiculous," I said to an elderly women who greeted us at one door.

"You're crazy!" she hissed at us. "Crazy!"

"She's right!" I cried as we walked away. "What are we doing? Our parents wouldn't have braved a nor'easter for us—so we could trick or treat for a handful of candy. We are crazy." 

I said I was done. I said I was going home.

Most of the neighbors agreed, except for one father.

"You seem to be doing a lot of complaining," he said.

His comment left me speechless. I had assumed we were all in the same boat: miserably dragging ourselves through the cold and snow so our already-indulged children (who'd celebrated Halloween last week at a neighborhood party and at a school-wide costume parade) could again experience the novelty of trick or treating. I had assumed we all couldn't wait for it to be over.

Instead, I guess, Mr. Sunshine.

Back at the homestead—and again basking in the delicious heat of the furnace—I told Chuck I wanted to punch Mr. Sunshine's lights out. How dare he accuse me of complaining. How dare he.

"He's dumb," Chuck offered.

Maybe. But here's the thing. I refuse to feel ashamed because I wasn't aglow in the joy of doing Halloween for the fifth time. I couldn't use a stroller in the snow. Everett couldn't keep up with the older kids, so I carried him the entire time. In his snowsuit. All 30 pounds of him. 

Chuck and I made Junior two costumes this year. We decorated pumpkins. We raked leaves and jumped. We drank cider. We made caramel apples. We listened to the Monster Mash. Again and again and again. We even did the damn crayon and leaf rubbings and framed them. We did Halloween. I loved all of it (most of it) but for God's sake, it's almost Thanksgiving. At this point, Halloween needed to be taken out back and shot already.

I hate that I even need to justify my actions—my dedication to my child. I hate that I feel better seeing my argument in print when deep down, I know I'm a damn good mother. That's my problem, not Mr. Sunshine's, but the whole exchange begs the question: when is it ever enough?

I keep thinking I know the answer. Then I realize, I know so very little. 

(Except that I hate Halloween in the snow! Hate it, you jackass.)

The things we chant when we're overexcited

It's hard to get in the mood for this:



When the outside of your home looks like this:



And your child is chanting, "Yah! Santa's coming! Santa's coming!"

I don't mind the snow, I'm just a little surprised by it. The last time it snowed before Halloween it was 1996. I was at college in upperstate New York. I remember it distinctly because I'd been walking home from a Halloween party with a group of friends and I fell into a snow-covered shrub.

My costume had been Shooting Star; my weapon had been a toy gun full of vodka—cheap vodka—that I'd refilled all night and shot into people's mouths. (If you're going to a party and don't know many people, I highly recommend this costume as a way to quickly make friends.)

As I lay in the shrub, one of my friends shouted, "Fallen star! "Fallen star!"

Drunk people are so funny.

They pulled me from the shrub. When we got to the next party and I discovered I had pieces of shrub stuck between my teeth, someone was even nice enough to floss my teeth with strands of my hair.

Hey, I didn't have to tell you I fell face-first.

What about you? Are you looking out your window as the snow falls, reminiscing about your favorite Halloween costume? Or are you lying on the beach drinking a Bahama Mama?

We got power! And this time, no fleas

It's been awhile since we've had a hurricane hit Connecticut. When Hurricane Isaias blasted us this week, I immediately thought of this blog and a) how much I miss it and b) how I'm so grateful I have this record of our past life in Mulletville Lite. 

Take 2011, when Hurricane Irene hit and we lost power for weeks. We were in the middle of a flea infestation, which halted my vacuuming and laundry-doing efforts. The kids had double ear infections. 

But what I didn't write about — as I was deep in the throes of electricity-less misery — was how every morning, our neighbors would walk over so we could cook breakfast on camping equipment in our driveway. We'd walk the neighborhood and survey the lack of progress on downed trees, pour some more whiskey into our coffee, then set up lawn chairs and watch the kids play tag in the yard. 

When the work crews closed the main road and diverted traffic through our small neighborhood, we gathered a supply of traffic cones (file this under "things you didn't know your neighbors had in their basement") and turned the street into a one-lane road. Drunk on whiskey, we were giddy at how it slowed people down.  

For our quiet little street, that was a lot of excitement. And remember kids, there was no TV or YouTube...

In 2012, Hurricane Sandy knocked out power so the town postponed Halloween a week then we got a nor-easter. The neighborhood folks and I took the kids trick-or-treating, blizzard and all. We changed Junior's knight costume into a downhill skier costume, and I sweat through my winter coat as I carried a rotund 40-pound Everette up and down the streets, knocking on people's doors, asking for candy. People looked at us like, What the hell are you doing here? Halloween is OVER.

They were right.

Now here we are on the other side of the state. Last year, we moved closer to New Haven and gave up our cozy neighborhood setting for a house on a hill that overlooks a neighborhood. When Hurricane Isaias knocked out our power a few days ago, I missed my old neighbors, with all the fervor and want of a lovesick teen staring at a poster of a boy band crush. (My God, do teenagers even still hang posters on their walls? Do they even still have boy bands?) 

But my neighbors texted me pictures of sternos. And told me stories of cutting their spouse's hair in nightgowns on the porch, with clippers hooked up to a generator, wearing earmuffs to muffle the sound. And our new neighbors walked our yard with us, ooohing and ahhing over downed trees. They wouldn't drink whiskey at 8am, but we did share bags of ice and extra coolers.

Here's some gratuitous tree carnage:

 

It's enough to make you forget about COVID-19. Oh right, that. 

Here's hoping that if you lost power, you'll get it back today. But more importantly, that if you're aimlessly walking a neighborhood, looking for people to drink whiskey with while you gawk at tree limbs, you'll come find us.  

Bonus points if you have a spare road cone and wear it on your head like a party hat.

 

Kicked to the curb for the very last time

Are you sick yet of Halloween? No? Great. ’Cause Mulletween 2010 was super dandy and I'd like to tell you all about it.

This is the first year we’ve trick or treated in our neighborhood; I must say, I was pleasantly surprised. There wasn’t a mullet to be seen—just lots of parents dropping off their kids while they waited in their 4x4s and smoked.

How thoughtful!

As for our neighbors, one nice man dumped his entire bucket of candy into Junior’s bag after admitting he forgot it was Halloween (he’d been too engrossed in the Patriot’s game to answer the door). His lovely woman friend waited until we were almost out of earshot to call him an asshole.

"Mommy? What's an asshole?"

Another neighbor let Junior pet her New England chickens. When the blind one tried to peck Junior’s costumed feet, the woman kicked it.

Gently.

And hello, hearty aerobics. The neighborhood is an outdoor gym, I tell you. It’s house after house of this:



Yes, poor Junior’s “trick or treats” sounded more like “triiiiiii...ck [gasp, gasp] ohhhhhhhhhhr [gasp, gasp] treeeeeeeeee......at” but he scored a lot of extra candy—no one likes to see a miniature dragon in pain. And because Chuck carried Junior for most of the night, Chuck got some exercise, too.

(Velcro would have been helpful. Polyester dragon costume + leather coat = “Chuck! Junior’s sliding down your back again! Grab his tail!”)



As for me, Mulletween helped me answer a pesky existential question that's been plaguing me for the longest time. I now know what I want to be in my next life: a stray dog in this neighborhood. Thanks to the dark sanctity of the neighborhood shrubs, me and my pregnant bladder were able to mark at least five miles of Mulletville in complete modesty. You couldn't ask for a better set-up than dark hills lined with shrubs.

We had such a quaint night, it was enough to make me misty about moving. Could I have misjudged this blighted community? Could we have been BBQing alongside our neighbors for the last four years instead of cowering from their swearing, smoking, chicken-kicking ways?

Could have been so beautiful...could have been so right...

No. When I left for work this morning I found our pumpkins smashed to pieces on our front walkway.



Mulletville, you are officially and irrevocably dumped. Forever.

Parents found drunk in foul smelling basement with a chicken

Storm Sandy is headed for Connecticut. Luckily we have a basement stocked with beans and a liquor cabinet stocked with vodka. We'll be gaseous and drunk but by God, we'll be safe (I hope).

Incidentally, I don't mind if this storm postpones Halloween because I have no idea what Junior is going to dress up as. One minute he wants to be a washing machine, the next Optimus Prime. And Everett? He won't even let me put an arm into his costume:

I tried—nicely—to wrestle him into it, but he didn't want any part of it.

He's in for a big surprise if Storm Sandy hits and we lose power, and we need to wear shit like this to stay warm.

Now you understand this post's title...and why I'm kind of dreading Halloween.

Peeing my way to freedom

I haven't talked much about Chuck's ghostbusting lately, mainly because he hasn't talked much about it. I asked him not to after I had a steady stream of nightmares in which he appeared as a floating head. Oh, and I still kind of skeeve my dining room because of the whole sea captain thing.

The truth is that I believe in ghosts/spirits/floating things, but I don't want them to know that.

Chuck has obliged my request to not be in the know by having all his ghostbusting conversations in the basement. But dangitall, there I was vacuuming this morning when the cord flew out of the socket and the vacuum went dead. My ear was thisclose to the baseboards. Chuck was talking really loud. I tried to pull myself away, but I couldn't. There was talk of flying bottles. Missing pets. Mysterious scratches.

I finally walked away-right after I'd sufficiently freaked myself the fuck out.

To calm myself, I took Junior to Target. If you didn't already know, pretty red bull's eyes are the ideal anecdote to the geebies. (And in case you missed it, enchiladas are the perfect after-being-robbed food. You come here to learn, I know.)

After our glitzy trip, I found myself on a remote back road somewhere near Mulletville. Hoping that Junior would fall asleep, I'd taken the long way home and had gotten us lost. I was about to turn around when I saw a big sign for a corn maze.

Hooey! Fun with corn!

We drove up a dirt road. Sure enough there was an old man sitting by a big ass field of corn. I can't be sure, but I think he had a glass eye. We were the only ones there. I asked how long the maze was. He said it covered a few acres and could take as much time as I wanted. Seeing as I'm seven months pregnant and was in the company of an overtired, fickle toddler, I said we'd be out shortly.

Um, Mrs. Mullet, they call it a maze for a reason.

Every damn row of corn looked the same. We went in circles. We went in squares. The wind rustled through the corn husks. The husks loomed over our heads. There were no landmarks with which to get my bearings. I'd never seen Children of the Corn but I kept thinking of it.

Corn. Dead, hairy corn.



Then I started hearing Chuck's voice. The floating bottles. The pets that never came home. The husks rustled again. I thought I saw something a row over. I heard someone whispering. I heard the theme song from Halloween.

Oh.My.God.

Run, Junior! Run!

Ultimately, the thing the saved me was my bladder. After we were out of eyesight of the farmer, I'd dropped trou and watered the plants. Twenty minutes later I'd done it again. And so on. We followed the um, markings, back to the entrance. I never thought I'd say this, but I love my pregnant bladder in a way I never thought possible.

I'm done eavesdropping. And I'm all set with corn until next summer. Even that might be too soon. Tell me: With Halloween right around the corner, do you like to spook yourself out? Do you like to be scared?

Trust me

Our new neighbor just stopped over. I had just gotten home from work, just sent Junior's babysitter, Holly, on her way.

"I'm Peggy," the neighbor said, her crackly brown hair glinting in the sun.

Of course I was hesitant.

We've had some interesting neighbors in the two-family house next to us. First there was Lee, who took the bus from Mulletville to New Haven, where he went to college. He had a car but was trying to do his environmentally friendly part, which I applaud. But when he told us he was also heating his apartment with kerosene canisters, ala the ones you use for camping, Charles and I were a little nervous.

Lee was also an insomniac who had an affinity for pleasuring himself in the wee hours of the morning on his living room floor. He didn't like curtains and he loved candles. That really sucked because our kitchen looked right into his living room.

Trust me, when it's 3:30 a.m. and you're trying to heat up a bottle for a screaming infant, the last thing you want to see is some skinny, greasy granola guy tugging on his junk by candlelight.

Luckily Lee had a disagreement with the landlord and moved out on Halloween. Unluckily he was so angry with the landlord that he told all the sweet little Trick 'o Treaters just what he thought of her as he was moving his furniture from the house to his car.

Trust me, when it's your kid's first Halloween and he's crying because you dressed him up as a penguin and it's 75 degrees out, the last thing you want to see is some skinny, greasy granola guy yelling at kids who just want candy.

Anyhoo, Peggy told me that the neighborhood seemed nice.

“It is,” I said. “But be careful. We were just robbed.”

“Oh.”

She shook her head and smiled.

“In the middle of the day. Someone broke in.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“They took our stuff. We…are…very…scared...now.”

“Mmmm.”

“I’d make sure you lock your doors.”

“Great.”

It struck me: the woman’s brain was caterpillars and marshmallow. Maybe some poppy seeds.

“Nice to meet you,” I said. Then I backed slowly away.

When Charles gets home I am going to tell him about Peggy and he’s going to say he misses Lee. At least Lee had some character. And then I am going to suggest—again—that we put the house on the market.

If you saw the Great Pumpkin dragging its butt towards your fat kitties you'd bust a gut too

I had the day off yesterday so my friend Amy and I took Junior to Pier One (NPR, if you’re reading this, me and the boy were just pressing our bony noses against the pretty glass).

Ahem. Pier One is a lovely store, but it’s also the least child-friendly store on the planet. The aisles are ridiculously narrow. Fragile ornaments rest on wobbly stands. Long drapes billow underfoot. It’s a nightmare, but I can’t help myself. The store smells and feels like all the things I wish my house could be.

We’d only been in the store a few minutes when an employee dropped a glass vase near the registers. My first thought, which I kept to myself, was, “Serves you right, you precarious placers!” Junior’s first thought, which he shared with the entire store, was a loud “Uh oh.”

There was a cheery round of laughter. Someone said, “How cute.”

Junior, being the attention whore he is, said it again—louder. This time the laughter was a lot less cheery.

“Ok, sweetie,” I said, “everyone heard you.”

“Uh oh.”

“That’s enough.”

“Uh oh.”

“Junior, shut it.”

“Uh oh. Uh oh. Uh oh.”

Because I’m a new mom and I’m terrified that someone will make a snarky comment about my child, which will mean I will have to punch said person’s light out, I made a beeline for the door. Junior, meanwhile, kept yammering on.

“Uh oh. Uh oh. Uh oh.”

“I swear I’m gonna—”

When we passed the employee who had dropped the vase, she stopped sweeping and looked at Junior.

“Now you’re just making me feel bad,” she told him. He did that weird eye squint he does when he’s not sure which of the seven words he’s learned is appropriate, then decided not to say anything.

On the car ride home he flailed and grunted in the back like a bronco with hot sauce in its ass, even though Amy and I so very graciously sang him 20 rounds of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star—and we have great voices! Album-worthy voices!

As Junior nears his 15 month milestone, I’ve come to the conclusion that mothering—thus far anyway—means:

1) never feeling like you know what’s going on

2) not being sure if you’re going to like the fact that your kid is a smart ass chatterbox

3) laughing wickedly as your kid drags himself across the living room floor in the puffy orange blob of a pumpkin costume you got him for Halloween and thinking Oh my God, how did I ever live without him?



P.S. I got the Halloween costume at Marshall's for half the price of the other store. They're not paying me to say this but they're having a shoe giveaway. Maybe they thought I needed some new shoes.

I'm not a lesbian, Dad, I'm pregnant

Every year for Christmas my husband, friends, and I pick out a tree and trim it at my father’s house. My darling Bob-Villa-wannabe father has been in the midst of home repair projects since the early ’80s and enjoys the bachelor lifestyle. So while the tree may be picturesque, the accoutrements of the backdrop (a poker table, missing molding, bare light switches, and mismatched curtains) are not. Did I mention dust balls the size of small continents? Dust mites that have colonized, hoisted flags and are threatening to secede from the rug?

This year it was just me, my father, and my friend, Sarah. Sarah had recently leapt from the closet (”came out” seems so moored for such a bold move) and I had told my father as much before we arrived. I hadn’t really planned on telling him the news of my pregnancy without my husband, Charles, there (Charles was home trying to pass an eight millimeter kidney stone, poor guy) but I was vomiting pretty regularly and anxious to get the news out in the open. I had been able to puke indiscreetly behind pine trees as we were walking through the Christmas tree farm—”Oh look, do you like that tree waaaaay over there?”—but back at his house, my father was giving me the eye. As in, “How hung over are you?”

My news was especially good because no one thought Charles and I would make it. It took us close to nine years to get to the alter (we had a lovely ceremony, except for the Justice of the Peace who was missing some teeth and spit occasionally while we said our vows). Eight months later, on Halloween night, Charles and I dressed up as a Viking couple (I wore a dress I had worn in college, when the vintage-Goth-bohemian movement was in its heyday). We had a wee bit too much to drink, abandoned our candy-giving posts on the front steps, and adjourned to the bedroom. Viking magic ensued, as did a baby.

Anyway, this is how the big news at the tree trimming party went down…

Me: (green and exhausted) “I think the tree looks great.”
Father: “It sure does.”
Sarah: “Yup. The tree looks great. Just great.”
Father: “Yes, I think we are all in agreement that the tree looks just fine.”
I look at Sarah. She nods to go for it.
Me: “Dad, there’s something I need to tell you.”
Father (looking nervous): “Should I sit down?”
Me: “If you want to.”
Father (looking at Sarah): “Do I need to sit down?”
Me: “I guess it’s a good idea.”
Sarah: “The tree looks really great.”
Father looks strangely at Sarah. Sits.
Me: “Dad, I have some really exciting news…”
Father (again looking at Sarah): “Did you have anything to do with this?”
Me: “Why would Sarah have anything to do with me being pregnant?”
Father (silent, then finally): “Wow. Doesn’t the tree look great?”

I’m dedicating this blog to my brother, in response to his question, “Why can’t you just be normal?” You see, I can’t be normal because in front of a Christmas tree abutted by fascist dust mites my father thought I was running away with my lesbian lover when in fact I was just trying to tell him I was carrying a Viking baby I had made with a man who was home trying to give birth to a little crater.

Elusive indulgences wanted! (And maybe a little sympathy)

Did I mention I failed my 3-hour glucose test by one point? (One fricken point!) I did. Even though I am not overweight, stick to a healthy diet and run myself ragged working full-time and caring for a toddler, I have gestational diabetes.

Because of that point—one point!—my doctor banished me to the Mulletville diabetes center last week for a consultation. I entered the center in the foulest mood possible. I may have been dubbed a gestational diabetic, but I wasn’t going to go quietly.

First I saw a chipper, lumpy nurse who called me “honey,” “hun” and “sugar.” She smiled past my snarky looks. She was impervious to my Death Stares.

Like gasoline on a fire, baby.

She gave me a 50-page health questionnaire to fill out. She checked my thyroid. She waxed my legs. By that point I’d been at the center for an hour. I started to get even pissier—sighing heavily and looking at my watch. Scratching the walls. Urinating in the corner. You know the drill. Nurse Lump-a-Lot finally noticed.

“I don’t belong here,” I moaned. “One point…”

“It’s probably genetics. Just one of those things.” She handed me this:



The OneTouch UltraMini. It may sound like a vibrator and look like a crack pipe, but it’s not nearly as exciting.

She told me I have to check my blood sugar levels four times a day and record them in my own special blood sugar diary.



(Sorry, Heidi Klum, this will have to replace your special notebook for now.)

We test drove the UltraMini. I passed. Hoohah! I waited for her to tell me I could skip the whole gestational diabetes thing but no, it was time to see the dietician.

Fuckity fuck no.

The dietician was even cheerier than Nurse Lump-a-Lot. Worse, she was skinny. I’ve been around long enough to know that skinny people who think a lot about food are never happy people. They use food scales and talk about bulgar wheat.

They are the Anti-Christ.

Before I’d even sat down, the dietician busted out her rubber fruits and vegetables and started playing kitchen.

“Two servings of broccoli equal one serving of potatoes. Now, what happens when we add a piece of toast?”

She drew smiley faces on my food chart. She referred to her camaraderie of dieticians as “we,” as in “we strongly encourage you to try Quinoa.”

I wanted to tell her where she could put her Quinoa, but she wouldn’t shut it. I kept trying to tell her that I knew enough about nutrition—one point!—to fast forward through the elementary-school schpeel, but she was going to cover it.

I even busted out the big guns—I told her how I was one of the first reporters to cover trans fats, a nasty bi-product of the hydrogenation process, for a gourmet food magazine back in 1997, so I knew about bad fats—but she wouldn’t put down her damn rubber vegetables.

She pummeled me with fake food. I was beaten.

So here I am, just me and my UltraMini. And a whole buttload of Halloween candy. Thoughts of Thanksgiving pies. Of fat, gooey chocolate Santa Clauses with jolly bellies full of marshmallow. Brownies dripping in caramel. Puff pastries. Cheesecakes paired with red wine.

Nothing I can touch.

I need a vice, people, and I need it now. What’s left to do that’s naughty?

(Don’t say sex. Please. We all know that sex when you’re eight months pregnant is about as appealing as moose going at it on the National Geographic channel.)

Honey, can you cut a hole in the window so I can get some fresh air?

I'm back from spending a very colorful week with my mother and the kids, and I have the pictures to prove it (just wait). I can't say enough good things about getting away, even if it was to Assachusetts. There's a big world out there. New possibilities. Vast horizons.

I came home ready to move. Ass on fire. Balls to the wall. Let's do it.

I guess the universe read my Dear John letter to Mulletville and thought I needed just a little bit more fire in my ass. When Chuck and I woke up this morning, we found that our car window had been smashed and that someone had stolen our GPS. The idiot cut the GPS cable, so the GPS is useless.

So fitting.

Chuck was outside at 7:45 a.m. duct taping the window, since rain was in the forecast.



I've decided that if life in Mulletville were to have a theme song it would be a rendition of "The 12 Days of Christmas." One home invasion, two broken windows, three smashed pumpkins, four toothless crackheads, and an angry man with a shotgun (that'd be Chuck).

We got to see the Mulletville police for the last time when we filled out the report (at least I hope it's the last time). It's funny, I was going to dedicate a post to them before we moved. For some reason all the Mulletville policemen are hot, young and buff; I thought that warranted a gushy post. They barrel around town, chewed up pavement hissing from their wheels. They're at your side in a split second. My friend swears she saw a squad car that read "Don't even try it!" They could be the new TJ Hooker stars.



Or not.

Anyway, I promise this is my last post about this horrible town. I was done at Halloween for fuck's sake. I'm starting to sound like a woman who can't break up with her loser boyfriend. I'm that friend.

And now I have to go back to reading maps. Bastards!

Just what size breasts should my frog-person have anyway?

As I was drawing the Halloween costume for my frog-person for my blog banner, I kept having the same thought:

This is the most time I've spent on myself in a long time...and it's not even really me. It's a drawing of a frog. 

This is the most time I've spent on myself in a long time...and it's not even really me. It's a drawing of a frog. 

This is the most time I've spent on myself in a long time...and it's not even really me. It's a drawing of a frog. 

And so on.  

Chuck? I think it's time for an All Girls weekend for Mrs. Mullet. And I'm taking my ^*$#ing cape.

P.S. Chuck's frog-man finally lost some weight and gained some muscle. Swoon away, ladies, swoon away.

I'm putting this pussy to bed

It's Saturday night. We have friends coming over, I swear. But before they get here I have to show you this:



It's disgusting. It looks like a terrible, hairy marshmallow creature but it's no longer on my cat thanks to the Furminator. I'm a little surprised by how habit forming the brushing was. Once I got started, I couldn't stop. Thankfully the cat attacked my hand so I had to.

Do you like the leftover Halloween candy I used for reference? (I ate it after the photo shoot.)

This is my last feline/fur post for a loooooooong time. I'm starting to creep myself out (and looking at all that hair is actually making me gag).

Random Tuesday thoughts: My husband left me

I’m not sure how random this is, but I desperately want to belong, so here’s my widget.



I’ve been keeping a secret. I made mention of it once on this blog, and only one person made reference to the reference, so I never brought it up again (sensitive? Who me?). But here it is: Chuck is a ghostbuster. And right now he’s in California shooting a pilot for a historical ghostbusting show that’s going to air on a major network in the fall.

After years of mocking Chuck for his ghostbusting, I’m now choking on my words. It’s worse than the chicken finger and bobby pins—300 times worse.

I have no interest in the paranormal, and over the years I’ve made that very clear to Chuck. I don’t want to commune with spirits and I sure as hell don’t want to walk around a cemetery in the middle of the night. At times I may have teased and taunted my husband for his strange hobby, but it was only out of love.

Besides, it’s not easy being with a ghostbuster. You have questions, like will our children have to be ghosts every year for Halloween? And if I die before Chuck, will he roam the earth in search of my flying orb?

My mother’s been coming over to watch Junior while I work. It’s nice of her to help, but I wish I could break up with her for awhile. Today she called me in a panic because she heard a loud thumping coming from upstairs. She begged me to come home and check it out.

Thankfully my boss is understanding—though I did not tell her I needed to run home because my mother believed there was an angry ghost in Chuck's manroom because she has been listening to too many of Chuck's ghost stories. I told my boss I had a leaky pipe.

When I pulled in the driveway, my mother and Junior were standing on the front lawn. In the rain.

“Something’s up there,” she cried.

Turns out the cat was stuck in the closet (yes, this monster) and was pounding on the door.

Is it any wonder I haven't taken her up on her offer to spend the night? Mother with overactive imagination + Chuck’s ghostbusting stories = misery for Mrs. Mullet.

So there you have it. I’ve aired my sheet with the holes for the eyes cut out. Random or not, life feels like the weirdest sitcom ever.

Keely, is your zombie free to do a playdate with my ectoplasm next week?

Why can't you pick your own seats at weddings?

Remember my dickhead brother-in-law and how he tried to pimp Chuck out? Well, we saw him again last night at a family wedding. This time he told Chuck that Junior probably likes Caillou so much because Chuck looks like Caillou.

I'm not even going to justify that with a side-by-side photo comparison.

Ok, fine, I will justify it with pictures. Here's Caillou:



Here's Chuck last Halloween:



See?

Then Larry asked my brother, Ted, if he and Chuck were gay lovers—because they took a picture together with the disposable table camera.

This all transpired before the best man's speech.

My brother retaliated by doing shots of tequila and dragging me and Chuck outside to talk about the best way to jump Larry.

"He's old," Chuck said, "so you'd have to punch low."

"We're at a wedding," I said.

"He said your husband looked like a pre-pubescent, hairless freak," Ted said. Actually, it came out more like, "He shled your hushband looked like a pre-plescent, hairless fleak."

He'd had a lot of tequila.

In the end, no one beat up Larry. Instead, my brother came to the drunken conclusion that I should tell Larry I was with child. If I were to play an inebriated game of connect-the-dots, I guessed my pregnancy would prove that a) Chuck was so un-Caillouish that he'd knocked me up and that b) since Chuck was boffing me, clearly he and Ted were not gay.

I think? Why couldn't I just eat my steak and potatoes in peace?

I told Ted no, I wasn't ready to tell the entire family about my bun. But I'll bet you can see where this is going. On the way out, Ted did the equivalent of pull down my shorts in front of the high school gymnasium. He went up to Larry and slurred, "My shister's pregnant. Shle's having another baby."

He waited.

Then Larry said, "I know. Your sister's a lush, Ted. She hasn't had a drink all night. I've known all night."

Punch low, is that about right, Chuck?

I need your help! SOS! WOK! PAN!

Did you know that I am single-handedly keeping Morningstar Farms in business? Me and the company are such good pals I'm a Facebook fan. I'm a member of their prestigious Insider's Club. Junior's on their Chik Patties like a...oh crap, it's early, insert witty simile. Or is it metaphor? Did I mention it's early?

I'm begging you, if you know of any good toddler cookbooks, tell me what they are. Junior wants to dress up as a Morningstar Farms Veggie Riblet for Halloween and cute as he'd be, it'd be so nice if we could wean him off the pre-made stuff and onto something Mama Mullet made.

P.S. Please, please, puhleeeze don't suggest Jessica Seinfeld's kiddie cookbook. I think the family has enough money and the cover design is so hokey!

P.P.S. I was not paid to write this post. Not even in black bean burgers.

Is it cheating if I just touch it for a second?

I really needed a night out. Even Junior, who is normally “Play with my trains, Mommy! Play with my trains, Mommy!” said, “Go to a bar and have a drink, Mom, you deserve it.”

Such a sweet toddler.

So last night I met my friend Jenna and her friend at a bar. Jenna’s friend was a man, and he had thick, wavy hair. Somehow I ended up sitting between them. Somehow I fought the urge to run my fingers through his thick, wavy hair all night. I kept catching glimpses of it out of the corner of my eye. It was vibrating on his head like some kind of vixenous cabana boy, one that cried, “Squeeze me, baby! I’m yours!”

He caught me staring—he even offered to let me touch his head—but I knew that once I started I would have embarked on a long and frenzied journey, one that involved joyous screeching and people staring.

God, I miss having thick, wavy hair in my life.

Sometimes when Chuck and I are lying in bed I arrange my hair so it's covering his forehead; then I caress it—just so I can pretend for a moment that I’m with someone who has hair in which I can frolic.

Ok, I’m totally kidding. Chuck and I don’t lounge in bed enough for me to play Twister with our heads. But you get the point. Instead of this



I’d just like to have this for a day



I’d also like to not be so hung over right now. But at least they make Tylenol for that.

P.S. Chuck, I'm sorry about this post. If you'd wear your damn Halloween wigs more than once a year we could get through this together. Baby.

I'd consider dating the Easter Bunny

Seven parents. A one-year-old princess. A four-year-old Spider-Man. A five-year-old rock star. A five-year-old Super Mario brother. A four-year-old Butterfly Princess. A two-year-old dinosaur. And Junior, the two-year-old pirate who looked more like a well-dressed hobo.

I now know exactly what it feels like to herd sheep: crazed, maniacal, cackling sheep on a sugar high. The most frightening sheep ever! Sheep who decide to roll around on people's lawns. Who disappear into shrubs and wander off with other trick-or-treaters. Who yell into the night sky like barbarians.

Who wake up at 6:15 a.m. thanks to Daylight Savings Time.

Halloween, now that we've officially met, toddler-style, I think it's time we start to see other people.

Say cheese!

Hair wise, our family is undergoing some strange transformations.

First, the top, front section of my son’s hair is fluffy with curls while the rest of his hair lies flat and straight. He’s a cross between a rooster and Madame de Pompadour.

Charles likes to encourage the poof by combing my son’s hair upward. I let him because sadly, my husband has no hair of his own with which to play. He’s bald as a bowling ball. He hid his hair loss well when we first started dating, but a year into our relationship he started shaving his head instead of adopting the dreaded comb-over—thankfully. He’s been told he looks like Moby, Phil Collins, and Billy Corgan. People always say he looks like someone. In fact, my friend recently called to say he looks like Les from "Survivorman." She was so excited about her conclusion—as if poor Charles has been walking around with a big bubble over his head that reads, Please, everyone, tell me who I look like.

Adding to Charles’ hair issues are the random occurrences of Alopecia in his beard and now on his body. It’s no surprise the poor guy always dons a huge wig come Halloween. I heard someone say once that, “You are who you pretend to be.” I like to think that when Charles gets his angel wings someday, the Pearly Gates will be bountiful with hair, much in the same way we envision our beloved pooches up in Heaven gnawing on an endless supply of rawhide. Some women wish riches and fame for their husbands; I wish functioning hair follicles.

I could easily spare some of my own: I’m growing all kinds of new hair on my head (hair I lost during pregnancy?). It’s not very flattering. Some of it is starting to encroach upon my ears. Then there’s a long row of short bangs that resembles a comb. It’s not long enough to look like a planned bang job; it looks more like a botched at-home crazed encounter with very dull scissors.

Our family photos are just lovely as of late. Charles resembles someone in the photos. I just wish I knew who it was!